


our only pleasure we take furtively

by Cerberusia



Series: to plunge your naked arms into my beautiful eyes [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Desperation, M/M, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 07:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerberusia/pseuds/Cerberusia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Peter stayed the Alpha and took on the Beacon Hills pack, Peter is driving Stiles home in the Jeep, and Stiles won't sit still. <i>Peter smells him and just gets the usual odours of adolescence: sweat, deodorant, nerves and a touch of persistent low-grade arousal. He can tell that Stiles showered this morning and jerked off while he was in there, but he can't work out what's bothering him now.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	our only pleasure we take furtively

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Краденое удовольствие](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067575) by [CallMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMe/pseuds/CallMe)



> For my Kink Bingo prompt _watersports_ ; title from Baudelaire.

Beacon Hills is really quite beautiful in March: the leaves are just returning to the trees, the first spring flowers beginning to show their heads, and the air is still pleasantly brisk. Peter took a half-year trip to Chicago when he was younger for work and enjoyed it, but he couldn't make a home anywhere but California.

Stiles is staring out the window at the passing woodland, but he doesn't seem to be enjoying the scenery. His loss. Peter smells a rabbit a few yards ahead around a bend in the road and switches down into first gear. The last time he drove stick was a decade ago when he took a friend's keys to drive them home - God, he'd forgotten how tiresome manual transmission was.

"Do they make automatic Jeeps?" he wonders aloud, and Stiles looks at him out of the corner of his eye like he thinks this is a set-up. "I haven't had to mess around with gear changes since my early twenties," Peter says, attempting to put Stiles at his ease. God, he used to be good at this - he was always the guy the pack came to for smoothing things over with the locals. Six years of not being able to make conversation have apparently put a dent in his people-skills.

Stiles twitches a bit. "So," he says, sounding a little strained, "this makes you...what? I mean, with all this running around in the woods and people being bitten without their consent - or even with their consent but Jackson is totally not good werewolf material, c'mon, you know you agree with me really - and general fear of imminent death and all, we never really got round to your age."

"I'm thirty-five," says Peter easily, taking a blind corner slowly: he can smell and hear that there's nothing coming, but he needs to get back into practice for faking human senses and reaction times. He can't afford to slip up. "Did you know that I only regained consciousness in the third year of my convalescence? It's a very strange thing, to be nearly twenty-nine one day, and thirty-two the next."

"The pity party you're throwing yourself's getting kinda old, just saying." He doesn't have to turn his head to know the expression Stiles is making.

"Most humans wouldn't be so...bold as to challenge an Alpha when they'd seen what he can do," Peter notes mildly.

"Hey, I'm not challenging you, no deathwish here, just telling it like it is." Stiles flashes him a brief, daring grin. "Lucky you like me, huh?" He's so nervous he's giddy.

"Yes," Peter agrees, mild as a vicar, "you are."

Stiles opens his mouth again and starts to speak, then quickly shuts it again and goes back to staring out the window.

But he's still fidgeting. Now, Peter knows that Stiles never sits still, but there's something more to this: it looks like physical rather than emotional discomfort. But what's irritating him? There's nothing wrong with the seats, his clothes look comfortable, he's not acting like he's too cold or too hot...Peter smells him and just gets the usual odours of adolescence: sweat, deodorant, nerves and a touch of persistent low-grade arousal. He can tell that Stiles showered this morning and jerked off while he was in there, but he can't work out what's bothering him now.

Then Stiles squirms in a particular way, tensing his thighs, and Peter feels stupid for not realising earlier. He keeps his eyes on the road, but watches Stiles in his periphery squeeze his thighs together and bite his lip.

_Well._

He supposes that he should really stop and let Stiles out to piss, but Stiles' squirming sets off a heat in him that he hasn't felt in years. The discomfitted shifting of his legs makes Peter want to hold him down until he pisses himself. Peter takes a careful breath, glad that Stiles' human nose can't smell what he's feeling right now.

"Do you want me to stop for a minute?" he asks, and watches as the tips of Stiles' ears go red as he realises that Peter has noticed his predicament.

"Nah, I'm good," he says, casually as he can manage. Peter's a little dubious, but decides to take him at his word for now: Stiles is sixteen, which is plenty old enough to make decisions about when and where he goes to the toilet.

Peter's hard-on is getting a little uncomfortable, though. For all his self-control, he's still a relatively new Alpha, and becoming unexpectedly embroiled in one of his deepest, most cherished fantasies is pushing him to revert to his Beta self, softening him around the edges - a dangerous thing to do around Stiles, who is, if Peter is being honest, probably the most dangerous of the teenagers he's adopted as a pack, and he's not even a werewolf.

Stiles blows out a breath and presses his thighs together. Peter resolutely keeps his eyes on the road.

Ten minutes later, still a good half hour from the Stilinski house, Stiles has resorted to occasionally squeezing himself through his pocket when he thinks Peter won't notice, and Peter is trying not to crush the steering wheel. He estimates that Stiles is about fifteen minutes away from starting to leak, and when he does Peter doesn't know what he'll do. Combust, possibly.

When Stiles stops taking his hand out of his pocket or even off his cock and starts making tiny subvocalised groans, Peter knows he can't take this any more. He jerks the car to a stop on the side of the road, and the jolt must loosen Stiles' grip or something because as they're thrown forward in their seats Peter can smell the acrid scent of urine - he's losing control, and so is Peter.

" _Out,_ " he snarls, but Stiles is already going, fumbling open the door and nearly falling out of the car with one hand jammed in his crotch. Peter can hear him tearing open his zip, then piss falling on the dead leaves. He can _smell_ it, the piss and Stiles' quasi-orgasmic release and he can't control himself any more: he undoes his slacks and thrusts his hand inside, jerking himself roughly, desperately. The smell of Stiles in the car makes his cock throb, and he has to rest his free arm on the steering wheel and bite his sleeve to muffle himself.

He comes quickly and so hard it's almost painful, mouth opening in a soundless gasp. He shakes through the aftershocks for a few moments after coming before remembering - _Stiles_. He raises his head to find the boy outlined in the passenger door, hands gripping the frame. He smells a little of fear and more than a little of arousal, but overwhelmingly he seems confused.

Peter can work with confused. He controls his breathing, sits upright, takes out a handkerchief to wipe his hand off. His face is politely neutral throughout it all.

"Do hurry up," he says, voice perfectly level, "you do want to get to your house before your father, right?"

Stiles stares at him and opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then closes it again and gets back in the car with a perplexed frown. He's silent all the rest of the way back to his house, and Peter drops him off without incident and with a cordial 'Goodnight, Stiles'. Perfectly calm, perfectly controlled. Perfectly Alpha.

And if he commits to memory how Stiles had slouched in his seat to hide the small wet spot on the front of his jeans, that's no-one's business but his.


End file.
